


A Hole in the World

by Enfilade



Series: On My Dark and Lonely Side [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Chastity Device, Confusion, Consensual, Dating, Depression, Developing Relationship, Dominance, Drug Use, Intoxication, Light Masochism, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mild Sexual Content, Performance Enhancers, Piercings, Robots, Sexual Tension, Submission, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As commander of the DJD, Tarn thought he understood his universe and his role in it.  That is, until he wakes up with Deathsaurus in his berth and everything he thought he knew in ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say Goodbye to All You've Known

**Author's Note:**

> *breaks champagne over the bow of a brand new ship* 
> 
> This fic is T rated for robot parallels for:  
> performance enhancers/drug use/abuse,  
> alcohol and intoxication,  
> attempted suicide, depression, and abandonment issues,  
> violence, injuries suffered in a fight, fear of future violence,  
> fear of dubcon/noncon (didn’t and doesn’t actually happen, but someone’s afraid it might’ve),  
> what the DJD does for a living, sadism, Vos’s psychopathy  
> dominance/submission themes, erotic piercings, chastity belts, masochism, denial,  
> sexual relationships, asexual romantic relationships, polyamory,  
> and the Decepticon Justice Division.
> 
> How’s all that in a “T” rated fic? Because this fic has characters thinking about or talking about more of those things than they’re actually shown doing.
> 
> This fic is a long, slow build while Tarn tries to sort himself out. The sequel, “The Day After Tomorrow,” is where the hot and heavy stuff lives. 
> 
> I wanted to do a different sort of take on Tarn, so this fic is set in a different universe than either “Waltz with the Devil” or “what you are in the dark,” both of which have Tarn intimately involved with Pharma.
> 
> Takes place the night after the end of Issue 39. MTMTE 39 spoilers.

Chapter One: Say Goodbye to All You've Known 

Tarn tried to ignore the dull throbbing in his brain. He was in the middle of his recharge cycle, wrapped in tarps and, for a change, delightfully _cozy_. Messatine had a lot going for it as a base of operations, but warmth wasn’t one of its selling points. Typically the DJD had to be satisfied with a standard operating temperature somewhere between the lower threshold of comfortable and _at least the fuel isn’t frozen in my lines._ The _Peaceful Tyranny_ , on the other hand, threw off plenty of heat from its engines. The DJD didn’t have to feel bad about diverting as much of that heat as they wanted into their living space.

Feeling contentedly warm indicated to Tarn that he was probably in his private quarters on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , and all he wanted to do was revel in the sensation and get back to recharge. He was tired, _terribly_ tired in fact, and his joints ached painfully. He wanted to spend a few more cycles at rest. Was that really so much to ask? 

Unfortunately, that pounding sensation in his head was not going away. It pulsed insistently, demanding attention, dragging him further away from the comforting oblivion of recharge and back into a consciousness plagued by pain and confusion. Tarn realized, belatedly, that he did not _want_ to wake up, at _all_ , and yet he probably ought to, because something in his system was clearly amiss.

Tarn had been boosting on nuke for long enough now to be intimately familiar with the cycle. First the ascent, the ramping-up sensation. Then the high, all his circuits buzzing, his spark spinning and his fuel tanks bursting with power, his frame quivering with power to burn, his senses spooled up to maximum and beyond until the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colour and sound. The unutterable pleasure of letting loose and the exquisite pain of denial. The struggle to hold back, to contain the energy in his circuits, to take the time to target…and the breathtaking release when he finally let loose. The crash: pleasant exhaustion, release, relief. Catharsis. 

And then the crave.

Then the churning in his tanks and the aching in his limbs and the hunger in his spark for another hit. The desire to step on board that rocket and ascend once again. 

He typically warded off the crave with a few thousand rotations of his transformation cog, trading one vice for another. He could replace his t-cog far more easily than he could replace the precious and extremely limited enriched nucleon.

But this…

This didn’t feel right. His circuits were still buzzing, mildly, but also thrumming with energy, as though he were still riding the high. And yet he was simultaneously feeling the ache of withdrawal and the tank-tightening sensation of the ascent. He even felt—though it slipped farther away the closer he came to consciousness—the peaceful, contented sensation that followed the crash.

And he didn’t remember getting a headache from nuke before.

The headache actually felt more like the kind of hangover that followed an engex binge. The static in his spark and the hollowness in his tanks seemed to support that idea. The more alert Tarn became, the more he realized that he actually didn’t feel very well at all, and that was worrisome. What had happened?

It wasn’t like him to overenergize on engex. Unlike Helex, who loved to spend his down time getting absolutely and unrepentantly fendered, or Tesarus, who had yet to learn the fine art of saying “no” when he’d reached his limit, Tarn felt it was criminal to ruin the enjoyment of a fine engex by guzzling so much that he became too intoxicated to appreciate its flavour. Granted, when he came across a large selection of rare blends, it was tempting to sample a little of each. Granted, in those cases he sometimes ended up a little more buzzed than he preferred to be. Granted, he’d occasionally woken up with a mild hangover the next day. But not like this. Never like this.

He’d gone from being a bit uncomfortable to feeling just plain awful, actually. He’d much rather go back to recharge and sleep it off, but that goal seemed farther and farther away each second. 

And he was _hot_. Forget _warm_ …he was actually unpleasantly hot. Groaning, Tarn rolled onto his back, stretching out his limbs in an attempt to dissipate the heat. 

His left leg met resistance. His left side was noticeably warmer than his right. And his left arm rested on warm, vibrating metal that was definitely not his own.

Tarn’s optics lit with a flare of illumination.

Getting overenergized? Not something he did often. 

Getting overenergized and bringing someone back to his berth?

Not something he did _ever_.

Tesarus took a perverse delight in searching the galaxynet for online rumours about the DJD. When he got into the engex, his absolute favourite was finding the most outrageous, perverted stories and reading them aloud for the amusement of his teammates. Tarn had found the stories distasteful at best, and more often than not, downright insulting. The others seemed to get a good laugh out of them, though, so Tarn usually let Tesarus keep reading while privately asking Kaon to consider the stories’ authors for inclusion on the List.

At any rate, Tarn had unwillingly discovered that most Cybertronians, both Decepticon and Autobot alike, seemed to think the Decepticon Justice Division was one big kinky orgy of interface and murder. The truth was…well, the murder part was actually pretty accurate. The orgy part, however, was more fabrication than fact.

Tarn believed in keeping private matters private, but there was only so much privacy one could have when one was part of a small, tightly-knit military unit that essentially lived in one another’s subspace pockets. Even Nickel had picked up pretty quickly that Helex and Tesarus had a special arrangement, Kaon wasn’t interested in interface, and Vos got more out of sadism and control than out of personal participation in intimate acts. Vos particularly enjoyed playing with Helex and Tesarus in a set up where the two big bots obeyed his every order. Nickel had even realized that Tarn…which she wouldn’t have except she was a medic, and therefore it was her job to inspect…

…well. That was private.

Though how private, Tarn didn’t know, and he realized he was wilfully delaying the act of turning his head and finding out who he was sharing his berth with. Fragging one of his team? What was he thinking? 

Yes, yes, small unit, yes, there was no law against it, but Tarn found it _unprofessional_ , to pollute the relationship between commander and subordinate with matters of interface. He’d had trouble enough justifying his relationship with _Kaon_. To Kaon, it meant emotional closeness without interface; to Tarn, it meant having someone in whom he could confide without reservation. Tarn had blurred the lines between commander and subordinates badly enough by having an _amica endura_. To have done _this_ ….

…Surely he hadn’t done this with _Kaon_? Kaon, who was repulsed by the very idea of participating in interface? What would that mean for their rapport if he had?

But fear was an emotion unbecoming of a Decepticon. Tarn turned his head.

For a moment, he didn’t know who he was looking at. Not one of the DJD, which was a deep relief, though it raised a host of new questions. The fearsome head of the Decepticon Justice Division was not most mechs’ idea of an ideal partner, and Tarn had never had any time for the DJD groupies and wanna-bes who irritated him with their unwanted attentions. Those fools rarely had any grasp of what, precisely, it took to be part of the DJD. They were more likely to be the idiots sharing murder-orgy fantasies on the galaxynet.

Tarn studied the figure next to him. He saw striking features cast into shadow by a long helm, red optics darkened by sleep, a bold crest and…and _another_ pair of optics glimmering in the faint light of the datapad glowing on Tarn’s bedside table. Disparate features resolved themselves into a recognizable face surrounded by a stylized beast-head helm.

 _Deathsaurus_.

It felt as though someone had ripped Tarn’s spark out.

It felt as though he were floating somewhere near the ceiling, looking down at the damning evidence of his own frame tucked into his own berth with Deathsaurus.

_He’d fragged someone on the List._


	2. All Other Ground is Sinking Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's been a weird experience. It's more like a series of short bursts than my usual long chapters...maybe because I'm writing from the mindset of someone who's half asleep and strung out on nuke?

Chapter Two: All Other Ground is Sinking Sand

If getting overenergized was unusual for the leader of the DJD, and taking a casual berthmate was out of character, _fragging a target_ was completely beyond the pale. The very idea was so thoroughly revolting that Tarn couldn’t begin to contemplate having actually done it. He’d had more than one victim who’d tried to buy his life with offers of favours and every time the notion had repulsed him so completely that he’d left the unfortunate mech in question to the tender mercies of the rest of his team. 

_What in the Pit had happened to him?_

What could possibly have been so awful that getting blasted out of his mind and taking that damnable rogue Deathsaurus to his berth could have seemed like a good idea?

Tarn lay on his back, frozen stiff, unable to even recoil from the warmth of Deathsaurus’s side pressed against his own. He’d spent millions of years devising creative punishments and yet had never imagined a torment quite like this. There really was a special hell reserved for those who inadvertently compromised everything they held dear.

Then Tarn felt a dark memory stirring in the back of his brain. Something that was, indeed, so awful that it ought not even be contemplated. Something that might provide the answer if only he could steel his nerve and look…

Just then, Deathsaurus stirred.

A sliver of red light gleamed in the rogue commander’s primary optics. Tarn found himself wondering if the “eyes” on Deathsaurus’s beast helm were functional optics. If they were, what did the world look like to him, seen through four sensory organs instead of two? Probably not as strange as the world must look to Kaon, but…

Tarn was permitting his thoughts to ramble. _Conduct unbecoming_. He readied himself to face Deathsaurus as befitted the commander of the Decepticon Justice Division, even though he wasn’t yet sure what had brought about this situation.

“Are you awake?” Deathsaurus murmured.

Stalling for time, Tarn answered. “Yes.”

“Mmmm. You should get more rest.” A soft chuckle. “You look like hell.”

Tarn’s utter bewilderment sparked a sense of rising indignation. Had the whole world gone _mad_? Deathsaurus should be _terrified_ , or angry at least—many of the DJD’s victims reacted, initially, with anger. Weeping and grovelling would be contrary to Tarn’s impression of the mech, but Tarn had been surprised before to discover just who ended up a crier in the final reckoning. This, though…this _concern for Tarn’s well-being_ was _preposterous_ and…

That sense of unreality grew stronger, keener, until it felt sharp enough to sever Tarn’s spark from any grasp on the here and now. It took all of Tarn’s emotional strength to maintain the façade of control. “And you?” Tarn asked.

“Don’t worry, I’ll still be here in the morning.” Deathsaurus’s mouth curved in what was, astonishingly, a smile. “Let’s recharge some more.” The rogue commander rolled onto his side and, shockingly, stretched out one of his wings over Tarn’s chest, as though to shield him and warm him.

Tarn lay there, stock-still, counting the ventilations into and out of his intakes, listening to his fuel pump beating, riding the waves of discomfort coming from the throbbing in his head and the aching in his joints. He could hear the rhythmic purr of Deathsaurus’s internal parts working in concert, like a symphony, while his own felt like a bunch of untrained novices butchering a fine aria into an unintelligible cacophony. The protective shroud of Deathsaurus’s wing felt surprisingly pleasant, but the sheer strangeness of the sensation made it difficult for Tarn to simply relax and enjoy it. Tarn did not consider himself _cuddle material_ , Kaon being the sole exception, and Kaon never came to his berth.

Tarn wasn’t sure how long he waited for the universe to start making some sort of sense. He felt as though he floated in some kind of unreal cocoon, suspended in an existence of confusion and pain. He didn’t stir until he heard a guttural sound next to him.

Deathsaurus was _snoring._

This situation had passed absurd and barreled headlong into surrealism. How could Deathsaurus be calm enough to _fall asleep_ next to the head of the DJD when he knew damned well he was on the List? It wasn’t just stupidity; Deathsaurus was utterly unafraid. Tarn would’ve expected a mech who’d traded favors for succor to look at him in search of a verdict—some acknowledgement that his performance had been sufficient to spare his life. Deathsaurus sought no such evaluation. He clearly took his safety for granted.

Enough of this paralysis. There came a time when a situation became untenable and a mech had to _do_ something. Tarn triggered his internal diagnostics, determined to find out if he really had overenergized last night…or if he’d used his interface equipment. At the same time, that dark thought reasserted itself, tickling his pounding brain, reminding him that yes, sometimes when a situation became unbearable a mech really _did_ have to do something about it, by himself if need be.

Oh _no_.

Oh, no, no, _no._ That had to have been a nightmare. This whole situation had to be a nightmare. 

Tarn couldn’t have deliberately overdosed on nuke and then gone to bed with Deathsaurus because _Megatron defected_.

Any minute now, Tarn would wake up. Wasn’t that the easiest way to escape a bad dream—to realize it was a dream and wake yourself up? This disgust, this grief, this confusion…they weren’t real. None of it was real. It would all be gone as soon as he _woke himself up_ …

Tarn racked his brain, looking for memories that could reveal the truth. Unfortunately, the recollections playing back to him weren’t comforting in the slightest. He remembered inviting Deathsaurus back to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ to discuss their plan of attack on the _Lost Light_. He remembered Deathsaurus’s test in which the rogue commander challenged Tarn to kill the rest of the DJD in a show of solidarity. He remembered Deathsaurus’s initial suspicion, greeting him with a box of explosives, convinced Tarn’s request for a rendezvous was an ambush in disguise.

He remembered Nickel looking in at him from the other side of the nuke recharge chamber.

And, though he wished it were otherwise, he remembered what he’d seen at the end of the book that even now glowed on his bedside table.

It was all real.

He wasn’t going to be waking up from this.

Tarn took deep breaths, trying to understand how he had come to deserve such a fate. He felt terrible because he’d deliberately tried to terminate his functions with a nuke overdose before realizing, at the edge of death, that if he went offline for good there would be _no one_ capable of preserving and defending the Decepticon Cause. Even though some time had passed, the aftereffects of the huge dose of nuke he’d ingested were still reverberating through his system. That was why he felt as though he were ramping up, powering down, buzzing and craving the next hit all at the same time. 

He hurt all over because, well, explosives. Nickel had wanted to stick him in a CR chamber, but he’d refused, insisting he was fine and he needed to talk strategy with Deathsaurus. His self-repair systems could handle it. It would just take time and, until the repairs were complete, it would hurt. It wasn’t the first time Tarn had embraced pain. It would probably not be the last.

And Deathsaurus…

Well, at least Deathsaurus wasn’t on the List any more. Surely that was _some_ consolation.

Tarn still couldn’t parse what in the Pit he’d been thinking, though. It had been a very long time since he’d interfaced with anyone, longer still since he’d been with anyone other than Megatron. He felt guilty about that for all of five seconds until he remembered that Megatron had _defected_ and it would serve him right if Tarn fragged every Decepticon loyalist he could find. 

The idea made Tarn’s brain spin. He forced himself to take deep ventilations and think through the situation logically, one step at a time. 

What did Tarn know about Deathsaurus? Not that much, really. Oh, he’d read the mech’s dossier – he did so for everyone on the List – and it wasn’t as though Kaon wasn’t thorough. Deathsaurus’s theft of the Warworld had been described in exacting detail. There had also been a listing of all Deathsaurus’s known associates. But, of course, there was information missing. Deathsaurus had more troops than Tarn had supposed, which was good for his current purpose of army-building, but which would have been bad had the DJD been attempting a kill. 

And the dossier had not had anything to say regarding why Deathsaurus had gone rogue.

A week ago, Tarn would have dismissed that information as trivial. Deathsaurus had committed a Category 5 offense, and that was all the DJD really needed to know. _Why_ was irrelevant. There was never a good reason for turning one’s back on the Cause.

Now, though, Tarn recognized that Deathsaurus had not turned his back on the Decepticon Cause at all. He’d had a disagreement with Megatron, which was an entirely different thing. 

What did Tarn _truly_ know about Deathsaurus?

The dossier had called him mercurial: prone to sudden changes in mood and unexpected behaviours. Powerful. Charismatic. Built a Decepticon; not a convert, then, not a true believer, but someone who’d never had a choice to be anything else. Yet now Tarn was certain that Deathsaurus would never want to be an Autobot or a neutral. Even in his self-imposed exile, Deathsaurus had kept his Decepticon badge.

Tarn had found him cunning, fearless, skilled and unpredictable, and above all devoted to and defensive of his people. Deathsaurus had met Tarn head-on and engaged him one-on-one rather than throw his followers at the perceived threat. Deathsaurus had been wary, but not unreasonable. And Deathsaurus had had the nerve to give Tarn a test, to ensure that their ethics were compatible. Tarn had to respect that kind of courage and cleverness.

So, all in all, there were a lot worse people to end up in bed with, and maybe Tarn’s problem wasn’t his choice in partner but the fact that he’d taken anyone to his berth at all.

Anyone who wasn’t Megatron.


	3. New World Order

Chapter 3: New World Order

Tarn lay on his back in his berth on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ , suffering a sleeping Deathsaurus to cuddle up to him and wrap his wing over him, while his mind ran a thousand revolutions a minute, trying to figure out how he’d wound up in this situation. His body ached from his recent nuke overdose and Deathsaurus’s cunning ambush, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony in his spark caused by the news of Megatron’s defection.

Tarn had devoted himself to Megatron, completely and utterly. At the time he’d thought Megatron and the Decepticon Cause were one and the same. As the centuries went by, somehow Megatron had supplanted the Cause, and now Tarn recognized that there was little difference between the delusional religions he’d punished in others and his own worship of Megatron, the Founder and Leader. 

Now the universe as he’d known it had crumbled to pieces, and Tarn had been forced to face hard truths. The Decepticon Cause was as vital as ever, yet Megatron was no longer part of it.

Megatron had to be punished.

That revelation was a torment for the mech who’d once been Megatron’s most ardent follower. In fact, sometimes Tarn had suspected that Megatron was uncomfortable with the utter and uncompromising devotion which Tarn had showed him. Why else would Megatron have avoided him for so long? Why else had there been so little communication between Megatron and his Enforcer? 

But Tarn couldn’t help it.

His choice—and it had been entirely his choice—had been to save his intimacy for Megatron alone. How could he, Tarn of the Decepticon Justice Division, take lovers when his entire being was devoted to Megatron and his Cause? How could Tarn allow anyone else to ever so briefly take his devotion away from Megatron?

It was why the relationship between Tarn and his old friend Kaon worked so well. Kaon had never been interested in interfacing. Tarn had not had to feel torn between his own needs for affection and the idea of “cheating” on Megatron. 

Now, all of a sudden, Megatron had turned his back on everything Tarn held dear, and Tarn—in retaliation? –had ended up in bed with Deathsaurus. 

And he still wasn’t sure how this situation had happened. Had he been _that_ strung out on nuke? Surely not. And yet…

Tarn forced his fuel pump to keep beating in a steady rhythm while he tried to remember what had happened the night before.

Tarn’s memory of the strategy meeting between himself and Deathsaurus in his office on the Peaceful Tyranny was strong and clear. Tarn had been pleased with the outcome; he’d made a good choice in an ally. Deathsaurus not only had a warworld and a large, strong, devoted crew, but he had a number of the same personal characteristics that were so appealing in Megatron. Charisma. Intelligence. Combat prowess. That indefinable sense of _presence_ when he walked into a room.

Tarn was no slouch in the combat prowess department and he considered himself smarter than the average Decepticon, but he was not a natural extrovert like Megatron and Deathsaurus. Tarn was happiest working with his own little unit, people he knew and trusted, mechanisms who respected his need for occasional solitude. Tarn was a squad commander. Deathsaurus commanded an entire army. And right now, the Decepticon cause needed an army to fight for it, a field marshal to lead the army in battle, and a new Emperor to handle the difficult executive decisions.

Tarn felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days. Megatron, leading the Empire from the front, and Tarn, his most faithful follower, enforcing from the shadows. Well, the old days were over. Now it was Tarn’s executive officer who would lead the army. And now the standard of the Decepticons hung heavy on Tarn’s shoulders.

Impatient at his feelings of loss, Tarn shoved the useless emotion away. Right now, what mattered was figuring out how his meeting with Deathsaurus in his office had become something entirely different in his private resting quarters. 

They’d eventually run out of strategy to discuss, and the topic of conversation had turned to more informal matters. Deathsaurus had asked a number of questions, and willingly offered his own responses. Tarn had been puzzled by the sudden chumminess, but he’d supposed that it was probably worthwhile to get to know his new executive officer as a person, and vice versa, so he’d gone along with it. It would engender trust. The DJD had done a similar sort of informal meet-and-greet type of event for Vos, when he’d been new in the role.

So Tarn had opened up his drink cabinet, and poured… Innermost energon. Not engex. Not intoxicating cocktails. Tarn felt both relief that he hadn’t been foolish enough to get fendered, and dismay that he couldn’t blame his current predicament on overenergizing.

He had started feeling weary, though. He still hadn’t fully recovered from the nuke overdose, and his self-repair systems were taxed fixing the damage that Deathsaurus and his explosives had done during their fight. With the strategy discussion out of the way, Tarn had relaxed and fatigue had rapidly overtaken him. 

He remembered hoping that Deathsaurus would wrap up the conversation and mention a desire to get back to his troops. He remembered debating whether to end the meeting himself, then deciding not to as Deathsaurus brought up yet another point of discussion. The last thing he wanted was for his new ally to feel slighted, or to think that Tarn was keeping secrets. Deathsaurus had said it himself: he had a strict no-secrets policy. 

But Deathsaurus couldn’t seem to take the hint. He kept _lingering_ , as though he were waiting for something. Oddly enough, he had the strangest suspicion that Deathsaurus was loitering in his chambers on purpose, but Tarn hadn’t the foggiest notion as to why, or how come the Decepticon Empire’s most infamous rogue commander kept moving his chair closer to Tarn’s as they spoke. 

His memory began growing hazy around this time, but he definitely remembered falling back on those old counter-interrogation methods to hold on for one more sentence, one more exhalation, one more beat of his fuel pump…then one more…then one more…

Then Deathsaurus leaning in, asking if he was all right.

The absolute last thing a Decepticon commander should be doing was exhibiting weakness in front of his subordinates. To a loyal follower, it was unnerving and disturbing to see his leader struggle. It placed an unfair burden of worry and responsibility on the subordinate. It was the leader’s job to be strong for his followers, not the other way around. And, of course, to a disloyal follower, to admit weakness was to invite attack. But without another hit of nuke, Tarn’s overtaxed systems were crashing and Deathsaurus just wasn’t taking any hints to leave. Even Tarn’s iron will couldn’t hold the symptoms at bay any longer.

“Come on,” Deathsaurus had said. “Let’s get you to recharge.”

Recharge was all Tarn had been interested in at that point, so of course he’d agreed. He’d shoved away Deathsaurus’s offer of assistance, only to promptly stumble against the other Decepticon. Deathsaurus, wordlessly, had wrapped his arm around Tarn’s shoulders and held him up as he’d stumbled his way to the door to his sleeping quarters. Once the door had opened, Deathsaurus had taken control, leading Tarn to his recharge slab.

And thank Mega… _thank fortune_ , he hadn’t been a complete idiot. He’d sent off a communication to Kaon before he’d collapsed into his berth.

Except that Kaon hadn’t responded, and he’d gotten Vos instead. Vos had asked him, in Primal Vernacular, what he could do for Tarn. 

Tarn had wondered why Kaon wasn’t answering, but he’d been too tired to ask, so instead he’d just requested that Vos activate the security cameras in his private quarters and keep an optic on them. Vos had agreed, and…

_Hmph_. The fact that the entire DJD hadn’t been banging on Tarn’s door demanding to know what Deathsaurus was doing to their commander meant that either nothing untoward had happened or else Vos had _really fragged up ideas of what kind of behaviour constituted “untoward_.” Given what Tarn knew about Vos’s personal tastes, his bet was on the _second_.

Reluctantly, Tarn sent an inquiry to his personal diagnostics, even though he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know the answer. In the meantime, he let his memory continue to play back. To his surprise, there was shockingly little to see.

He’d been absolutely exhausted by the time his back had hit the recharge slab. His brain had noticed the telltale sensations of Deathsaurus joining him in the berth: the sag of the slab under Deathsaurus’s weight, the sensation of another body next to his own, the sound of Deathsaurus’s gentle ventilations. His mind had simply been too fatigued to _care_. And the next thing he knew, he was in recharge. His playback ended where his mind had folded down into dream.

Could it be that _nothing_ had happened?

But if not, why would Deathsaurus want to be in his berth, if not to jack in, or be jacked into?


	4. Reconfiguration

Chapter 4: Reconfiguration

Tarn lost track of how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling, holding perfectly still so as not to disturb the peacefully slumbering Deathsaurus. His body wanted more recharge—he was not yet fully recovered from his overdose or his injuries—but his mind wouldn’t let him. Deathsaurus had tried to kill him once in the past day. He might try again.

And yet Deathsaurus—the one who had been on the List, the one who _ought_ to be afraid—was contentedly snoring next to him, while Tarn lay awake.

Tarn glanced over at the sleeping Decepticon and wondered if he, not Deathsaurus, was the one with the problem. Their differences settled, Deathsaurus clearly trusted Tarn to keep his word. Tarn, on the other hand, couldn’t shake the idea that Deathsaurus might still want to kill him.

Maybe that was natural. Tarn had been betrayed once already, and not that long ago.

Try as he might, Tarn could not convince his frame to go off high alert. The pain from his injuries and the craving from his nuke addiction screamed through his circuits, and suspicion and mistrust only served to stoke his senses higher. Finally, Tarn gave up on trying to return to sleep. He eased himself out from under the protective wing and sat up on the edge of the berth.

Deathsaurus shifted in recharge, but did not awaken.

Tarn took a moment to marvel. The rogue commander was genuinely, deeply asleep. And…

It occurred to Tarn that Deathsaurus was not unhandsome, as such things went. Certainly he wasn’t Megatron, but who was? No one, other than Megatron himself. Deathsaurus was still much _like_ Megatron, as far as size and power and commanding presence went. Deathsaurus was quite appealing, though would never be mistaken for a wind dancer—he was far too heavily-built and heavily-armoured to ever masquerade as one of the elite performers who had been so eminently desirable in the pre-Decepticon era.

Not that Tarn would find a fragile, delicate wind dancer attractive. _Certainly_ not. The original Decepticon vision was that of the manual classes empowered; the true Decepticon cause was one of Cybertronian power. _Peace through tyranny_. And so, the kind of heavy armored bots who would have been manual class in the pre-war society—the kind who made such good soldiers in the ranks of the Decepticons—were considered to be desirable partners by other Decepticons.

Most desirable of all, though, were those who combined the attributes of the wind dancers and the laborers: those whose power was earned through skill, speed and cunning rather than mere brute force. Those who could be sleek and still strong; lithe and still tough; streamlined and still deadly. Whether they were Seekers like Starscream or speedsters like Deadlock, these mechs who mixed the best of the old and the new were the ideal for most Decepticons.

Deathsaurus was more the first than the second, and yet there was a charm to his curved wings and a certain predatory grace in his movements. Looking at his berthmate’s distinctive beast-head helm, Tarn thought back to an era in Cybertronian history that predated his own. 

Once there had been many Cybertronians with such attributes: an entire tribe’s worth, in fact. Onyx Prime and his forces had been great rivals of Nova Prime and the warlord Galvatron. Nova had called them lesser beings, animalistic and bestial, not fit for civilized society. Galvatron had crushed their leader, decimated their ranks. Yet they had not been wiped out entirely.

By Tarn’s era such Cybertronians were popularly considered to be ugly. Though it was not impossible for them to hold high rank in society—witness Senator Ratbat—such achievements happened in spite of their appearance and required a certain amount of luck. Most high-ranking Cybertronians would not be caught dead with such vermin in their berth. Tarn shuddered to imagine what the upper echelons of society would have thought of Deathsaurus had he been online at that time.

And yet.

And yet, as always when things were repressed, they came bubbling back to the surface in unexpected ways. There were a few Iaconian and Vosian nobles who had developed quite the taste for Cybertronians with bestial attributes, and were willing to say so in public, the better to shock their peers and develop their reputations for being edgy and avant-garde. There were more than a few who indulged such fantasies in private. An underground industry of racy holos, dance costumes and yes, even escorts rose up to meet the demand. How many mechs decried these Cybertronians in public and dreamed of a beast on a leash in the privacy of their own quarters?

There was nothing quite like a taboo to create a fetish, Tarn thought.

Except that until right this moment, Tarn had been all but certain this fetish had no appeal for him.

Now, though, Tarn looked at the sleeping Deathsaurus—at the taloned fingers that gripped his bedding, the pointed teeth peeking over curved lips, and the eternally vigilant optics on Deathsaurus’s avian helm—and shivered with an emotion he could not quite understand.

Deathsaurus, Tarn was quite certain, would have laughed at those who called him names, just before slicing them open with his claws. He would have smirked at those who flirted with him for his attributes right before turning them down and walking away, just because he could. Deathsaurus was secure in his power, which made him an excellent Decepticon (disagreement with Megatron notwithstanding, and oh, Tarn could no longer hold him at fault for that). What worried and fascinated Tarn in equal measure was the fact that Deathsaurus acted as though the galaxy were a stage, the play was a comedy, and none of it was to be taken too seriously.

Tarn was certain it was at least partially an act. Deathsaurus had not been joking in the slightest when he had made Tarn choose between his team and his allegiance. The mech could be serious when he needed to be.

But that mocking sense of humour and that sly grin and that wicked sparkle in his optics…not at all like Megatron, and yet strangely appealing. Tarn was so used to using Megatron as his template for an ideal partner that he found himself struggling now to define “attractive” without using Megatron for comparison. And yet…Deathsaurus interested him. Tarn could say that much with certainty. Deathsaurus was both feral and regal, savage and sophisticated, a union of opposites that confused Tarn and drew him closer in the hopes that with sufficient study, he might understand…

Tarn shivered again, involuntarily, and then shook himself out of his daze. 

This behaviour was not _like_ him.

He had to put some distance between himself and the new object of his thoughts. 

Tarn stood up and forced himself to walk. He staggered slightly but quickly caught his balance, moving across the room to his desk, where he fell heavily into his chair. Deathsaurus did not awaken.

Tarn’s suspicion that he hadn’t done anything intimate with Deathsaurus the night before was growing, and yet he wasn’t entirely ready to trust his own judgment. That had taken a few blows as of late. Fortunately, at least where his valve was concerned, Tarn knew a way to be sure.

He parted his thighs and manually opened his valve panel. Thick fingers traced a familiar pattern of nine rings—four on each side of his valve, one through the node at the top—and, in the center, the lock that held all nine rings hooked together.

Tarn curved his index finger around the lock and tugged until he felt resistance. He felt the piercings move, but that was all: no pain, no tenderness. Most importantly, the lock was still fastened. Tarn doubted Deathsaurus’ spike was small enough to get through the web of rings, and even if he’d tried, the pain caused by the attempt would have gotten Tarn’s attention.

Tarn knew that no matter how high he’d been, he wouldn’t have undone the lock. He couldn’t. He didn’t know the passcode.

Only Megatron knew the passcode.

Tarn’s relief lasted only until the long-term implications of his arrangement with Megatron caught up to him.

So. This was what he had come to. Sitting in his room in the dark, a lock on his valve, and the key in the hands of someone who no longer wanted it. Someone new in his berth, someone he wasn’t sure he wanted to have there, and yet somehow he was more unsettled by the notion that perhaps he _did_ want him there after all. Frame aching from combat wounds, brain aching from nuke withdrawal, spark aching from abandonment. Tarn took deep ventilations, willing himself to just hold on until morning.

Tarn was almost, maybe, close to okay, when he made an ill-advised mistake. He checked his internal chronometer to see how long until the Peaceful Tyranny’s morning cycle began.

_One hour, five minutes_.

Which meant five minutes until Tarn’s datastation began to ping a wakeup alert. Tarn cursed his own predilection to get an early start on the day. That had been an admirable trait in a mech who knew his role in life and loved to fulfill it; but that trait was an absolute curse to a mech who was still trying to figure out the new world order and his place in it.

Hold on till morning? It _was_ morning. Tarn had been lying awake far longer than he thought.

He had five minutes, though, five minutes to close his valve panel and compose himself and think about what he was going to say to Deathsaurus. Best to get to it, then.

Tarn curled his fingers around his panel, ready to flick it shut, when something caught his attention. A light that hadn’t been there before.

Coming from his berth.

A ruby glow in two pairs of optics, and all four were fixed on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not "the end" as such...the second story is forthcoming, and it's significantly racier.


End file.
